“Alex, please sit back down. There is something more I must tell you. Please sit. Now, before you say another word.”
“I can hear quite well standing up, thank you.”
She took a deep breath and let the dreaded sentence spill out all at once:
“Nikolai and I are married.”
“Married, you say? Don’t talk nonsense. He’s old enough to be your grandfather. It’s beneath you.”
“Listen, please. I believed utterly and completely that you were dead, Alex. I saw you from my bedroom window, facedown in the snow. I watched you bleeding to death before my own eyes. I wanted to die myself. Then, in prison, Alexei was born. I knew I had to survive in order to protect him. The grandson of the dead Tsar was suddenly a threat to many inside and outside the Kremlin who-”
“But how could you-”
“There was a trial. I was convicted of treason and accessory to murder. A date was set for my execution. The night before I was to go before a firing squad, General Kuragin visited me in my cell. He had a signed pardon from the prime minister, from Putin himself. In the end, so Nikolai said, Putin could not let the son of the man who’d restored him to power be murdered by the Tsarists. Putin did it for you, Alex. He and Kuragin are the only reason we are both alive.”
“So you fell in love? You married him?”
“Oh, Alex, it wasn’t about love. Nothing like that. It was mere gratitude. That, and the security he offered us here. He’s an old man. He has been very lonely for most of his life. In his way, I think he does love me, Alex. And I’ve grown fond of him. Listen. I truly believed I had lost the only man I loved or ever would love. You. Late one night, when he’d had a bit too much wine and vodka, Nikolai got down on his knees and begged me to make his last few years happy ones. He was crying. In that moment, considering all he’d done, I felt I had no choice but to say yes. And, until I saw your face a few hours ago, I had no cause to regret it.”
“And if I got down on my knees and begged? If I ripped open my chest and showed you my beating heart?”
“Alex, my God. Please don’t do this.”
“Don’t do this? Don’t do this?”
“I mean-”
“Don’t worry, Anastasia. I won’t beg you. My knees don’t work that way.”
He looked away from her, staring at the distant horizon, peering in vain through the black curtain that had descended between them. A flash of memory from his childhood: he’d been given a puppy for his sixth birthday and called it Scoundrel. His mother had found him hugging the dog tightly to his chest, smothering it with kisses. “Don’t love it so well, Alex, or it may be taken from you,” she said.
A man must never place himself in a position to lose.
He should seek only that which he cannot lose.
“Oh, Alex, my poor darling, I–I feel like my heart’s going to cave in. I don’t know what to say.” She reached up to take his hand, but it was like clasping a glove from which the hand has been withdrawn.
“It’s because there is nothing more to say. I should never have come here. I’d almost come to grips with losing you, and now I shall have to start all over again. Although now”-he looked away briefly-“now I seem to have lost my son as well.”
“Oh, my poor, poor darling. It is devastating to see you in so much pain. If only there were something I could say or do-but there isn’t, is there?”
“I am glad you are alive. At least I have that knowledge to carry with me. And I am happy that I got to see my son, if only for a few brief moments. Knowing he, too, is alive, safe, happy, and with his mother… I can take all that with me, Anastasia, carry that in my heart at least. I don’t blame you for what happened. You did what you had to do to survive. Anyone would.”
“Dear Alex.”
“I should like to leave this place, Anastasia. Now. Is that possible?”
“No, Alex. Please. Stay just a little while. If only for his sake …”
“You have no idea what you’re asking of me. None.”
“But tomorrow is his birthday. We have planned a little party. He thinks you will be there and-”
“No! Please stop this!”
“All right. As you wish. There is a train tomorrow. The Red Arrow.”
“I shall be on it.”
She looked away.
“But you cannot-”
“Please. It is done.”
“If you insist, I will make the arrangements. It’s a lovely train, an express. I’ll take you to the station. In the troika. I remember how you loved the troika.”
Anastasia looked up at Hawke, awaiting his reply. He was looking directly at her, but every trace of animation had flown from his face. His fierce blue eyes were cold as stone. He was still as still.
“I will retire to my room until it is time to leave tomorrow morning. Will you please apologize for me? Tell your-husband-that I’m not feeling well? And that I deeply appreciate all that he’s done for you and Alexei?”
“Of course. He will understand.”
She put her hand on his forearm.
He regarded her in silence for what seemed a very long time, and then he turned his back and walked away from her, his head held high, his hands clasped behind his back, his hidden heart shattered.
Six
Early the next morning, Hawke emerged from General Kuragin’s private study into one of the palace’s great sunlit hallways. He’d been unable to find sleep all night, but he put a brave front on it. After a brief conversation about the possibility of an extremely private meeting with Prime Minister Putin at some point in the future, he got to his feet to bid Kuragin farewell, allowing himself to be embraced by the much older man.
His parting words to the general had been, “Thank you, thank you for saving them both, Nikolai, from the bottom of my heart. I know that I owe you their lives, and I will never forget it.”
He turned to go.
“One more moment, Alex, please,” Kuragin said, moving toward the fireplace. “I have something for you. It’s been in this house for over three hundred years. I want you to have it.”
Kuragin then retrieved a long, slender red leather case that rested upon the mantel beneath the massive portrait of Russia’s greatest hero, Peter the Great, in the midst of battle. He placed the object on his desk and unfastened the two latches. “I think you should open the case,” he said, smiling, and stepped back. “It belongs to you now.”
Hawke stepped forward and opened it.
Inside, embedded in an aged swathe of dark blue velvet, was a magnificent sword. It was sheathed inside a red leather scabbard decorated with brilliant gold fittings including the Russian double-headed eagle emblem. He withdrew the gleaming blade, admiring the helmeted steppe warrior at the hilt and the engraved ivory handgrip. It felt good in his hand. It must have been a good companion in battle.
“I don’t know what to say, General, it’s a bit overwhelming. I really don’t think I can accept such a grand gift.”
“Yes, yes, yes. Take it, my boy. Your heroic actions against that madman Korsakov may well have saved our entire nation from entering a new reign of Tsarist terror. I spoke to the prime minister by telephone in Moscow this morning. He agrees this small gift is the least we can do.”
“Can you tell me a bit of its history?”
“Well, it was one of Peter the Great’s favorite battle swords in the Great Northern War. The last time he carried it was at the decisive Battle of Poltava in 1709. Peter won a victory over those damn Swedes and sent them hurrying out of Russia, never to return. It was the beginning of our taking our place as the leading nation of northern Europe.”